Of German Fae
by Marquesa de Santos
Summary: In which a former goblin pretends a lovely young woman is his. Part Two of the Nightmares Series. AU. Rumbelle. One-shot. Rated for mature themes.


**Warning: Mentions of rape. Nothing explicit, but it's a little sad.**

* * *

Of German Fae

* * *

Zurie had a tendency to break down and cry during those holidays celebrating soldiers. This world had quite a lot of them. Of course, Zurie was still Belle, still broken hearted, still coming to him in confidence.

"What is the matter, dear?" The name "Zurie" sounded so wrong to his ears, clumsy in his mouth, foreign and strange and not Belle. He avoided it whenever possible.

"I don't like days like Memorial Day. All anyone can talk about is how fucking amazing soldiers are. And a lot are, you know? But some aren't. At all."

"Is that so?" Mild amusement at her diction. That particular word didn't often pepper her lexicon.

"Some of them are creeps."

"Well, dear, creeps exist in every realm of society. I don't see how the barracks are any exception."

"Oh, shut up. Shut up."

"He's not even a part of the Navy, and he is not going to be accepted, dearie." That would entail leaving, and we couldn't have that, now. The curse would never allow it.

"Yeah? I didn't press charges. The creep has no record. Because I was too—"

He hated when she called herself a coward. He would always interrupt. "They do evaluations. Doyle isn't the sharpest crayon in the box."

She stifled a giggle.

Better.

"I was once in the service." It was true of both Gold and Rumpelstiltskin—if he let the curse overwhelm him, a rather traumatic set of memories from the Vietnam War would rise to the surface. Fighting with the Australian army, or some such nonsense.

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"So…"

"I don't much like talking about it, dear."

"Oh."

He was rather brilliant at turning an excellent opportunity for conversation into awkward emptiness.

"Remembering is best left to the historians." It was gentle, and what they called his Scottish brogue in this world was just a bit thicker.

Life came back to her red eyes—he couldn't help but notice how much bluer her eyes were when she cried, even if her face was blotchy and her eyes swollen and she had used up all his handkerchiefs (again)—and she stood from the little chair he kept in his pawn shop, just for her.

"I've an idea."

~oOo~

It was so much something Belle would do, spinning her own particular brand of magic, pulling him into her safe place, comforting an old soldier's wounds (he still had nightmares to which he would never admit, but she'd known that forever).

She had dragged him to the library and all but pushed him into a chair, propping his lame leg on something she called a beanbag. She skittered away and skipped back with a large book in her (small, delicate, lovely) hands.

"I always wanted to know more about Rumpelstiltskin," flippantly tossed his way as she sat near his feet.

"Pardon?" His eyes widened, his voice a pitch higher.

"The book." She lifted it up for him to see, and his blood vessels relaxed.

"That's rather long for the tale of little Rumpelstilzchen?"

"German suits you. Dear rattle ghost, little poltergeist." She smiled. She had done her research.

"Why such an interest in this ridiculous creature?"

"I don't know if he's so ridiculous as all that. He didn't have to help the miller's daughter… if you ask me, the king is as much to blame… I know it sounds silly, Mr. Gold, but I've always sort of liked Rumpelstiltskin. We never got to hear his side of the story, and I've always been a little curious." She added as an afterthought, "I suppose I had a bit of a literary crush on him as a child."

"Surely you must not have. He stole children, dearie."

"Of course, and he's not totally free from that, you know? But how would you like it if you had helped someone, saved her life three times, and then she conned you? He shouldn't have asked for her baby, but she knew the price before she accepted his help. And the king was horrible, telling her to spin gold or die. Oh, shut up. Let me read you part of it, and then we'll go home."

They ignored the stares of the others, even as the sheriff's boy had come to sit beside her as she read.

And he knew she was just a caretaker, living with him and cleaning his property to pay off her father's debt, but damn. When she had said home, when they sat like this, he could pretend she was his, broken pieces and all.

~oOo~

During the week, she lived in a small room on the first floor (weekends she went with her father, and how Gold dreaded this limbo time when his home became an empty house, rattling with loneliness)

He would do his best to forget that she crawled into his bed when he was screaming for Bae, his Bae, or once repressed memories from the Ogre Wars leaked into his consciousness in this damnably magicless world, and in these moments of weakness he would name her "Belle" and kiss her hair, weeping.

He would return the favor, often. He would hear her screaming from down the hall, and a short twelve steps later he would be in her room, waking her, holding her until she stilled, and in the morning forgetting she had ever been in his arms, because damn it she was grieving the unwelcome touch of that bastard and he was so old… so old.

Tonight was such a night and he limped into her room, cane forgotten in the recesses of wherever. He sat on the edge of her bed and woke her, holding her to his chest as he rubbed her back.

"Sh, Zurie, sh," he cooed as best he could as she clung to his nightshirt. Snot and tears—she was a messy crier—soaking through his shirts and to his skin as she choked through her story (it was always so ambiguous, some new detail popping up, his knowledge vague as the hacked up pieces formed a sort of patchwork story).

"I kinda froze. I told him to stop, but I couldn't move. I couldn't fight. I just kind of…I don't really…" A gob of phlegm choked her as she swallowed, apologizing for her mess and his night-shirt as he assured her it didn't matter.

"My father got there at some point. I was screaming? I guess. Something. And it took me almost two months to leave him after but I eventually did. I don't know… he was… abusive… and I lost my sense of me… Zurie got lost in the whole thing…and I'm not sure where I went. I sound like a lunatic."

"No, no love. You don't. You fought him as best you could, Zurie."

"No, I didn't. I couldn't move. I could barely speak. I was so confused and angry and I didn't know… I think the worst part… he said he loved me after. I was crying and… not… happy… at all and he… I know he didn't love me… but why would you… why would he? I didn't…" But she was tired, and words were failing her. Her sniffles subsided, her head resting on his chest

She was sleeping, clinging to his soiled shirt as if it were the only thing keeping her whole.

He tried to pull away, to gently put her back down, but she had whimpered. It was after his fifth failed attempt to leave that he moved them under the covers, and wondered how he would explain being in bed with her in the morning. He had discarded the shirt on the floor, and she had found his undershirt (he'd taken to wearing them during the week, often too tired after these episodes to fetch another nightshirt, and was so grateful now for the decision. It was damp, but not unseemly, bearable) did just as well for her death grip.

For now, he'd pretend he was hers, too.

* * *

**Zurie: A French variation of a Swahili name meaning "beautiful"**

**Doyle: From an Irish surname which was derived from Ó Dubhghaill meaning "descendent of Dubhghall". The name Dubhghall means "dark stranger" in Gaelic. Relevant to Gaston in that Gaston is probably from a Germanic name derived from the element gasti meaning "stranger"**

**Couldn't help but reference Rabbits on the Run, a brilliant piece by rufeepeach. If you see it and feel I'm taking credit, I'm not. It's hers. It's just a cute detail I wanted to add.**

**Poltergeist and rattle ghost (with either dear or little) are loose translations of the original German Rumpelstilzchen. I thought it was cool. **

**I promise to post something happy next.**


End file.
